Saving Cecil

by Lee Mims

  “No,” I said. “Because I know you’re going to suggest using yourself as a plant.”

  “And the problem with that?”

  “It’s too dangerous,” I answered, the irony of our reversal of roles not being entirely lost on me.

  “What’s dangerous about it? Look, say we do find out this Butcher guy is arranging expensive hunting safaris out on the Lauderbach farm for some type of crossbred, souped-up hogs? All we’re talking about doing is buzzing up to Baltimore to have a little chat with him about them. Like you said, you need to get these guys off the farm and the Lauderbachs are no help. They’re basically in the dark or turning a blind eye because of their feelings for a loyal employee.” He got up, retrieved a bag of pretzels from the pantry and set it on the table. I munched on one and contemplated his plan.

  “And as I said,” he added, “our detective friend is following what he believes to be the stronger lead and, we know the Sheriff’s Department is dealing with staff reductions. Looks to me like we’d just be helping old Chris out. You know, creating a safe work environment for a bunch of squints.”

  “Squints?”

  “Academic types who squint at books all day.”

  “You are absolutely watching too much TV …”

  “In the end I’m only after one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You out of the sheriff’s crosshairs, of course.”

  What a good man I’m marrying. “Well, when you put it that way,” I said, “how can I reject your plan?”

  “Then it’s settled. If the good doctor, Newsom, says Fred Butcher is the contact man, we’ll head on up to Baltimore and have that little chat.”

  Wednesday morning, October 16, a little over three weeks to go before the wedding and what I’d hoped would be the successful end of operations at Lauderbach #1. Unfortunately, what had once been a high-probability well had now been reduced to only a maybe. My first obligation that morning was to get with my employers, Schmid and Medlin, in case they had any special instructions for me other than paying the Lauderbachs a visit to explain what was going on.

  Since they had contracted Greenlite Energy not just to drill the well, but to handle production and maintenance during its lifetime, I was sure they’d probably already gotten the bad news from them, it was up to me to explain it.

  Jackie and I stood back from the well, watching the activity and having a lengthy discussion regarding plans for the next few days. When we were done, I called Tulip to the minivan for a trip over to the Lauderbachs’. She was reluctant to leave the crew who were basically doing what they could to assist Willie, the “fishing” expert, as he tried to work a miracle. Jackie assured me Tulip was fine remaining with them while I was gone, so I let her stay.

  As was the usual procedure upon arriving at the Lauderbach home, I was ushered into the sunroom. The grimfaced couple stayed seated when I entered.

  “I can tell from your expressions that Greenlite has informed you of the problem at the well,” I said, following polite greetings.

  “Yes,” Arthur said, reaching for Annette’s hand. He looked tired and drawn.“I thought Greenlite was supposed to be the best. How could they be so careless?” Annette wailed. “Don’t they realize how much this well is costing us?”

  Assigning blame was above my pay grade and now wasn’t the time to go into the possibility of sabotage. They were too upset for that. I gave her a few seconds to compose herself, then said, “Greenlite is one of the best energy exploration companies in the business and the company they hired to drill the well, Schmid and Medlin, besides having an impeccable work record, also has a very long history of success in their field.”

  “It sure doesn’t seem so, now, does it?” she screeched. “How could they let something just fall down the well? It’s sheer incompetence I tell you!”

  I took a deep breath. I needed to be very careful in my wording. They already felt I’d insulted Luther, a trusted employee. If I wasn’t careful, I could make it seem that I was on the side of a company that didn’t give a fig about wasting their money. “Both companies have spotless records when it comes to safety and accidents … of any kind,” I said. “I can understand your frustration, but before we accuse anyone of incompetence, let’s see how this situation plays out. Also, you can rest assured that the incident will be investigated. For now, though, let’s talk about what happens going forward.”

  Annette crossed her arms over her chest and looked away. I continued to try to mollify her, saying, “I’m on your side here, and I can assure you that every attempt will be made to save the well. Here’s the plan. Using a formula devised years ago, a certain amount of time will be allotted to trying to fish the junk out of the well.”

  Before I could go any further, I needed to explain what fishing meant in regard to well drilling and how it’s done. That accomplished, I said, “If, after that amount of time, it’s determined that the junk can’t be retrieved without risking collapse, it is possible that portion of the well can be cemented and drilling is restarted at an angle farther back up the borehole.”

  Annette was still pouting so I addressed my remarks to Arthur, who was paying strict attention. “Since we were getting ready to make the turn anyway, this could work out. I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but don’t give up either. We’re just going to have to take a wait-and-see stance here. But you should know, these things have been happening since 347 AD when the Chinese drilled for oil using bamboo pipes. Trust me, there are still lots of options available to us.”

  “See, Lovey,” Arthur said, giving Annette’s hand a squeeze. “There is hope after all.”

  Annette dabbed tears at the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Just when we thought we were about to see the light at the end of the tunnel, this happens. Perhaps I need to take the advice of our oldest son, Arthur, Jr. He was here earlier. You just missed him. He came home when we told him what had happened and you know what his advice was?”

  “What?” I asked

  “Pray,” Annette said. “And I think he’s right. You know, it’s something we often forget to do what with the fast-paced lives we all lead, but when faced with odds such as we’ve had lately … well, maybe we should be doing more of it. Junior says God always has a plan and if we trust in Him, everything will work out for the best. That’s sound advice, don’t you think?”

  Also way above my pay grade. “Sure does,” I said.

  “Indeed,” echoed Arthur before turning to me and asking, “Can we offer you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

  “Thanks, no,” I said. “I’m going back to the well before I leave. I’ll be in and out for a while but as you know, I can always be reached at the number I gave you. Remember, stay calm. This is going to take a few days, but everything humanly possible is being done to minimize costs and, at the same time, save the well.”

  Feeling I’d left the anxious Lauderbachs somewhat less anxious, I hurried back to the site to pick up Tulip and then head home where I was meeting Bud. I checked in with Jackie. They were preparing to make a mold of the object at the bottom of the well, thinking another type of fishing tool might work better. He followed me back to the van as I called for Tulip. I had to call her several times, but she finally trotted up, sat at my feet, and gave me a look I’d seen before. “What have you been up to, girl?” I asked. She just blinked dolefully.

  “I saw her earlier out in the pasture eating grass,” Jackie said. “That’s what my dog does when he don’t feel good.”

  I bent to give her a closer look, but she got up, wagged her tail, and hopped in the van. “She’s fine,” I said. “Call me if you need me. I’ll never be more than a few hours away.”

  “Will do,” Jackie said as I waved goodbye.

  I couldn’t wait to get up with Bud and find out if he’d heard from Dr. Newsom yet as to whether Fred Butcher was indeed the masterm
ind behind the hogzilla hunts, as we’d taken to calling them.

  EIGHTEEN

  Before meeting with Bud, I had one small matter to attend to: the minivan. I’d rented it on a week-to-week basis and it had now been a week since I’d wrecked my magic Jeep. I needed to either renew the rental agreement or buy something else. Picking out a new vehicle would be a daunting task. I simply didn’t have the time it would take to look through all the models available and sort through the pros and cons of each. Besides, my heart still wasn’t in it.

  My text tune chimed just as I pulled onto the rental lot. It was an appointment reminder for the final fitting of my wedding gown. Just then, I saw the nice little rental agent that had taken care of me a week ago. A diminutive little fellow, quiet and unassuming, he dashed out the office door and hurried in my direction. I climbed out to greet him.

  His mouth was agape. He held his head with both hands, a look of total astonishment on his face. “Oh my gosh!” he exclaimed. “Are you alright?! What happened? How did you roll the van?”

  “Roll it?” I asked curiously. Then, looking back over my shoulder at the vehicle, I realized what he was referring to and added, “Oh, I see what you mean, but really, it’s just a little dirty, that’s all.” Little man’s gape got wider. “And, there may be a scra—”

  Now his eyes were rounder than the rims on his Ben Franklins. “Madam!” he rudely cut me off. “Are you saying you weren’t in an accident?”

  “No,” I said in exasperation. “I mean, yes, that’s what I’m saying. I wasn’t in an accident. I’ve just been using the van during the course of my normal work day.”

  “Wait,” he said, holding up both palms. “You’re saying you did all this damage by driving to and from work?”

  “Yeah. Sorta … .”

  “Where do you work? Afghanistan?”

  “As I was trying to say, it might have a scratch or two, here and there, but … ” I stepped back and gave the van another look. Tried to see it from the eyes of the person responsible for maintaining it. “Okay,” I relented. “There’s the occasional dent, too, but nothing I’m sure one of those dent-remover tools and a good wash job wouldn’t fix.”

  “Seriously?” fumed little man. “I’d be hard put to find an inch of space on the entire exterior of this van that isn’t damaged. And, what about the interior? I shudder to think what that looks like!” He marched to the van’s door and slid it open. “Oh, my goodness! What’s this?” he asked, startled at being met—practically nose to nose—by Tulip. She gave him a half-hearted wag of her tail and he backed up a few steps.

  “Oh, that’s only my dog,” I said dismissively, stepping to his side. I hadn’t meant for him to see her. I’d thought I could just run in the office, renew my rental contract, and be on my merry way. This called for more finesse on my part.

  Planning an all-out assault on any weakness he might have for feminine charm, I turned to face him. All at once, and without warning, Tulip barfed up a belly full of slimy green cow dung and grass in the doorway. A few globs oozed down onto the courtesy step with a plop.

  The smell hit us first. Little man and I jumped back as though we’d been blasted by the pressure wave of an exploded grenade. Then Tulip, apparently feeling much better, hit us next. Stepping into the muck on her way out of the van, she leapt forward to greet the little rental agent, who by now was ruing the day I drove onto his lot.

  “No!” I yelled, grabbing her collar just as she planted both front paws on his crisp, white shirt. “Tulip!” I jerked her back. “What on earth has gotten into you?” Then to little man: “I am so sorry, sir. She never jumps on people. She must be feeling much better, having relieved herself of that … guck … ” My voice trailed off at the sight of the agent, grimacing in horror at the green smears down his once-pristine shirt.

  “Eww,” he breathed, narrowing his eyes at me as if his fondest desire at that moment would be the ability to shoot lasers from them. “I can assure you, Ms. Cooper, you’ll pay for this … this … disaster. If you think you can just waltz in here and turn this car in, suggesting all it needs is a dent popper and a good wash job, you’re sadly mistaken. No one screws G.W. Harris and gets away with it. I’m calling the law!”

  Oh, great! Just what I need. Another policeman after me! “Wait, er … G.W. I’m sure I can satisfy you!” I called after him, wincing at my poor choice of words after just being accused of trying to screw him. Hurriedly, I shoved Tulip back in the van, slid the door closed, and followed him into the rental office. He was just lifting his cell to his ear when, checkbook in hand, I asked, “What would you say to a quick sale?”

  He looked at me like I was a worm. “What do you have in mind?” he asked and snapped his flip phone shut.

  Fortunately, Suds Car Wash was only a few blocks down from the rental lot. I couldn’t get Tulip and my new minivan there fast enough. After I’d given the attendant the keys and dutifully warned him, I sprayed Tulip’s feet with a nearby hose, retired to one of the picnic tables provided for customers, and called Bud. “I’m going to be a little late,” I said, and explained what had happened.

  “So you had to buy that piece of crap?” he asked.

  “’Fraid so,” I sighed. “But it’s okay. I’ll just trade it in when I decide what would work best for me.”

  Silence for a few seconds. Then Bud said, “How much longer do you think you’ll be there?”

  “Not much. Have you heard from Newsom?”

  “Yep, and it was just as we suspected. Fred Butcher is the man to see to book a hunt for the rare and illusive hogzilla.”

  “Did he say it like that or have you been watching too much cable TV?”

  “Too much cable, but it is nice to know you were right. Not that I ever doubted you. Now all we have to do is book a hunt and have Chris notify North Carolina Fish and Wildlife as to when and where it’s going to be held and we’ll shut them right down.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Maybe in the process he’ll pick up additional information that’ll lead him to Clinton Baker’s murderer.” Another few seconds of dead air drifted between us. “You still there?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I’ve got an idea. I’ll be down there by the time they finish with the van. Then you can follow me to a place where there’s a vehicle I think you’ll really like. A few modifications to it—which can be done while we’re in Baltimore—and it’ll be perfect for you.”

  I was intrigued and truthfully, now that the magic Jeep was gone, I didn’t have anything in particular in mind so his suggestion, at the very least, would be a good starting place for me.

  A short time later, I followed Bud onto a GM car lot. “Good grief!” I exclaimed as he unfolded himself from his Porsche. “You can’t seriously be thinking a Hummer is what I need.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” he said. “Take a look at your van, fireball, and tell me you don’t need something indestructible.”

  “Well, that was part of the problem, you see. The van was too big.” I pointed to three gargantuan vehicles parked side by side. “But look at those monsters. They’re even bigger. How could I squeeze one of those tanks down a little overgrown logging road?”

  “Follow me, babe. I’ll show you,” he said. We headed for the back lot. “You may not know this, but they don’t make Hummers anymore. However, before GM stopped production in 2010, they came out with a smaller version, the Hummer H3 Alpha.” We reached the lot and he scanned the rows until he saw what he was looking for.

  “I’ve been giving some serious thought as to what you need and doing some shopping around for you. I found this one. It’s a 2008 model.” We’d stopped in front of a grey Hummer that was indeed smaller that the mega SUVs out front. “It has a towing package big enough to pull one of your drill rigs out of the mud if you need it.”

  “Get out! Really?”

  “Really,” he laughe
d. “Plus its wheelbase isn’t much wider than your Jeep’s, but it’s plenty bad-ass and just as durable. We can add a heavy-duty grill and a wench to the front and you’ll be good to go. I know the general manager here and he can take care of trading in your … lovely van and have everything ready go by the time we get back from Baltimore. What do you think?”

  For some reason the fact that, like the magic Jeep, this car was no longer being manufactured endeared it to me. That Bud had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to find it was also touching. Besides, if it couldn’t stand up to my demands, I could always try something else.

  I looked up at him. “Okay,” I said. “I’m liking this idea. Let’s get the trade-in done and then go home. We’ve got other fish to fry. It’s time to see if you can convince Fred Butcher that you’re one of North America’s great wild boar hunters and you’ve just got to bag a hogzilla.”

  Bright and early Thursday morning, Bud and I flew to Baltimore in his plane, landing about nine miles from the center of downtown at Martin State Airport. Our plan was simple: Bud would meet with Butcher—he’d arranged the meeting before we left, claiming to be interested in adding an up-and-coming residential development to his family’s business—and I would rent a car and drive down to DC for my gown fitting. We’d spend the night and return home the following day.

  After checking into our hotel, we drove the rental to one of the downtown plazas and parked in front of an impressive office building that housed Butcher’s flagship company, Butcher Enterprises, Incorporated. “I’ve got his office number right here,” Bud said, pulling a post-it note from his pocket. “And we’re on time.”

  “Good,” I said, searching my iPhone for the location of the boutique where I’d bought my gown. “You’re going to catch a cab back to the hotel after your meeting. I’ll meet you there after my fitting and we’ll make dinner plans, right?”